


The Ice Witch’s Servant

by pr0nz69



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Bounty Hunters, Enemies to Friends, Escape, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fantasy, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Mages, Magic, Misunderstandings, Partnership, Past Abuse, Pre-Slash, Slavery, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0nz69/pseuds/pr0nz69
Summary: “I give you my word. Take me alive. You will leave with your inflated bounty and I with my life. None shall be harmed but the pride of those foolish churchmen who sent you.”“You'll have to forgive me if I don't put much stock in the words of a witch.”———Celyn is a reluctant bounty hunter sent by the Church to execute an infamous witch. Kai is a powerful mage serving one even more powerful—the so-called Ice Witch.[Inspired byThe Snow Queen.]
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I wrote about a year ago for a magic OC zine that unfortunately fell through. I’ll be posting the entire story in three parts, though I’m still reworking and expanding on the other two, so they won’t be uploaded right away.
> 
> I commissioned the amazing [pigeon_sponge](https://twitter.com/pigeon_sponge?s=20) for the character portrait you’ll see in the middle of this chapter! They were graciously doing commissions for charity, and we ended up supporting Doctors Without Borders due to the ongoing health crisis. Please check out their work and show them some love for creating such a beautiful piece from my barebones description! <3

The witch is remarkably calm as blood pools around the spear-tip embedded beneath his left collarbone. A gloved hand rises to grip the shaft, but he has the presence of mind not to pull it out. Though they are hunter and hunted, Celyn respects his clear-headedness.

But he has a job to do. He jerks his spear back, unplugging the wound. The witch stumbles, hitting the trunk of a pine behind him and sending a cascade of snow down into his dark hair.

“Stop,” he says, sweat beading at his brow.

His hair is shorter than what the Church reported, cut to the back of his neck and fine as silk. The orange brand is there, though, crawling up the left side of his neck, faintly glowing. That’s how Celyn knows he's found his mark—the Ice Witch’s servant. For the high crimes of witchcraft and aiding an enemy of the realm, the Church has sentenced him to death.

Celyn lifts his spear to finish the job—the job entrusted to him by the High Priest, the job that will pay for Mother's—

“Stop!” the witch repeats, his voice raised in urgency now. “Can't you see I'm unable to fight? I _yield_!”

“Whether you yield or not doesn't matter to me,” Celyn says, though the appeal for mercy leaves him discomfited. “I'm not here for prisoners. I was hired to take your life—nothing less.”

The witch shifts his weight, leaning heavier against the tree and shaking down more snow. “No—spare my life, and my mistress will make it worth your while.”

Celyn sets his jaw. “I don't do business with witches—least of all the Ice Witch and her confederates. Be thankful that I will grant you a quick death.”

He thrusts forward. The witch is faster than he expects and dodges. The spearhead does not embed itself into his heart as intended but glances off his shoulder, sending him tripping to his hands and knees. He sways as he pulls himself up on a tree, holding his wound with one trembling hand. Blood soaks his glove and the breast of his parka beneath it where a hole has been torn through buckskin and flesh.

Celyn hesitates, his stomach roiling. He wanted to avoid this, if only for his own sake—this undue suffering, even by a creature as abhorrent as a witch. He wanted to finish him off with a single killing blow. He's long known he isn't suited to this work.

“ _Please_ ,” the witch gasps, collapsing against the tree, “there needn't be any more bloodshed here today! Make me your prisoner—I have no doubt my beating heart is worth five times the bounty you were promised for my head!”

Celyn pauses. “Your... beating heart?”

“That's right. Don't underestimate the price of a mage's heart—it is a magical artifact unto itself.”

Celyn’s heard talk that witches' hearts are worth a small fortune to the Church, ostensibly for their use in the creation of antimagic weaponry. He’s never been able to abide the thought of taking one.

“I have no intention of cooperating with you,” he says. “Five times the bounty _is_ appealing—but I rather prefer what I can safely acquire to gambling it all away on whatever ulterior motive you have in mind. And you _do_ have an ulterior motive.”

The witch manages a breathy laugh. “Of course.”

“Then this conversation, along with your life, is over.”

“My designs will not interfere with yours,” the witch says, and Celyn pauses again, to his annoyance. “I give you my word. Take me alive. You will leave with your inflated bounty and I with my life. None shall be harmed but the pride of those foolish churchmen who sent you.”

“You'll have to forgive me if I don't put much stock in the words of a witch.”

“I understand your distrust—it's only natural. But look here.” The witch opens his mouth. Celyn draws back in alarm and disgust; an intricate, reddish-brown glyph is seared into the man's tongue, all raised bumps and scar tissue.

“I have had a brand of truth burned into my body. I _cannot_ lie.”

Celyn has never heard of a brand of truth—he was told only that the Ice Witch's servant bears an orange brand upon his neck.

“But,” he says, feeling foolish, “a witch can possess only one brand, and your neck—”

“Are you so ignorant as to not recognize it?” the witch interrupts, and then, almost disdainfully: “What manner of fools is the Church employing?”

Celyn bristles. “I'm a hired sword. I hold no loyalty to the Church.”

“Aha. So it _is_ the coin you're after. Then you should use me. You need the money, don't you?”

Celyn pushes the tip of his spear to the witch's throat. “Enough of your tricks. I won't be swayed from my purpose by your lies. And this time, I won’t miss.”

The witch’s hand goes slack on his wound. “I’m not lying.”

From this distance, in the silence of the forest muted by snow, Celyn can hear the witch’s breaths, clipped and shallow. _I’m not lying._ His spear-hand shakes. Why? Why can't he do it? Why is his resolve wavering _now_? He's killed before. In this line of work, he's had to. For Mother... It's all been for Mother—

He feels the heat of the fire before he sees it and twists out of the way before it can singe his hair. The witch has one hand thrown out from his body, the other, bloodied one pressing on the orange mark now bright as the sunset on his neck. Celyn dives on impulse, thrusting with his spear, but he's too far out of range now, and he’s left himself open to counterattack.

_Foolish_. If he hadn’t worked himself up to this state, worrying over the suffering of his mark, then he wouldn’t have ended up as prey himself.

But to his astonishment, a flurry of snow accompanies his motion, shooting forth from his spear-tip and striking the witch in the face and chest. He doesn't stop to think; his momentum carries him forward, and he falls on the witch.

“You—you're a mage,” the witch says, shaking the snow out of his face as Celyn rolls him onto his back and pins his arms to his sides.

“Shut up,“ Celyn hisses, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. His mind races. What was _that_? He's never—he isn't—

“Magic is inherited matrilineally—did your mother never tell you?”

“I'm not a witch!” Celyn snaps. He draws his dagger from his belt, holds it against the witch's neck. Kill him. If he just kills him, then—

Then—

The witch struggles underneath him. “If you're a mage, the Church will execute you. Killing me won't—”

He goes quiet, tensing as Celyn presses the knife downward into the orange brand. Then his body relaxes and is still.

For a moment, Celyn really thinks he's killed him. On closer inspection, however, he realizes he's only unconscious. He breathes out. Then, carefully, he turns him over. The man’s skin has gone pallid, dark hair loose and tangled with blood.

He can’t finish him off. He can’t. Not like this.

The witch is bleeding out fast. Celyn takes him under the arms and starts to drag him out of the trees, back to the open mountainside where he left his horse. Though the danger has passed, his heart refuses to settle. A witch—he can't be. He's never shown signs of magic. And Mother is no witch—he’s certain of it.

But the witch is right: whatever _that_ was, the Church will execute him if they discover it. Magic is a crime punishable by death. There will be a double execution when he returns with the witch.

If they find out.

His head hurts. He's too cold and tired to think about it now. There's a strange feathery feeling in his breast, like hundreds of soft somethings are brushing against his ribs. He tries to put it out of mind.

Rummaging through his saddlebags, he pulls out a roll of linen and sloppily binds the man's wounds. Then he ties his wrists and ankles with rope and covers his mouth with a heavy cloth before laying him across the saddle and climbing up in front of him.

First, he'll make shelter for the night. Then he can think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback makes my artist’s soul grow and prosper! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 ended up being longer than expected, though I'm happy with the changes I made from the original short story. This chapter features lovely artwork commissioned from the incredibly talented [dokirakii](https://www.deviantart.com/dokirakii), who did a wonderful job helping me design Kai and all of his brands! **The artwork below is slightly NSFW for nonsexual nudity** , so make sure your boss or grandma or whoever isn't around to yell at you.

The witch regains consciousness some time while they ride; Celyn feels him start to shiver against his back. The sun is just a red smudge on the horizon now, bloodying the waters of the stream winding through a clearing in the trees. He'll stop here for the night.

The witch watches him search through the saddlebags, flinching when he withdraws a hatchet, but Celyn only takes it to the low-hanging branches around them. He clears a spot in the snow for the kindling, and once he's set the fire, he lays down the horse blanket and drags the witch from the saddle to sit on it.

“Keep quiet and I'll let you speak.”

The witch nods once, wincing with the movement of his neck, and Celyn removes the cloth from his mouth. The witch sucks in the cold mountain air, licks his cracked lips, but says nothing. Celyn regards him warily for a few moments before turning to start on the tent.

“May I say something?” the witch asks.

Celyn sets the first stake in the frozen ground. “Go on.”

“You changed your mind.”

Celyn hesitates. “Yes.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. But I’m grateful to be alive.”

Celyn drives the hammer down. “For now.”

“For now,” the witch agrees, and then: “But the same is true for you.”

Celyn pauses. “What are you saying?” He doesn’t like conversing with the witch. He feels like he’s being talked down to—and manipulated.

“You’re going to die,” the witch says simply.

“Is that a threat?”

“No. An inevitability.”

“For all of us.”

“Of course. But  _ you _ will die very soon.”

Celyn freezes for a fraction of a second. “What do you mean?”

“You feel it already, don't you?” There's something haughty in the witch's voice that Celyn doesn't like. “The mana density here is high. It’s surging into you. You are like an unclaimed vessel. If you don't stabilize the flow of mana and find a way to regulate it, it will kill you.”

Celyn curls a hand over his heart. That feathery feeling from before has grown heavier, weighing on him. Or is he imagining it? “You're lying,” he says.

“As I've said, I cannot lie. The sooner you realize that, the easier this will be for the both of us. At least take advantage of my curses when they benefit you.” This last part is said rather bitterly. “In any case, I can save you. Let me carve your brand. That is how we mages protect ourselves from mana poisoning.”

“Mana poisoning,” Celyn repeats.

“An overaccumulation of mana that the human body cannot sustain. Did the Church truly send such a novice to assassinate me? I am embarrassed that you managed to overpower me, though I was not at my full strength. I suppose I'm obligated to commend you for that, at least. Well done.”

“I don't need your praise.”

The witch laughs. “Very well. Then untie my hands. I will create a most beautiful brand for you.”

“That isn't going to happen.” Celyn looks up to see a frustrated crease forming between the witch's brows.

“So you will die because you refuse to come to terms with your birthright potential. So be it—then die. I offered to save you out of sheer human decency, but I suppose it is your prerogative to refuse my aid as well. With you gone, I will escape on my own.”

“What you do in the Church's custody has nothing to do with me,” Celyn says.

The witch smiles unpleasantly. “My dear mercenary, do you think you'll live long enough to deliver me to the Church? No, you have a week, at most, before the mana consumes you wholly. I look forward to our expedited trip down the mountain.”

Celyn feels a flare of panic rise up in him and hastily quells it.

He finishes making camp, his thoughts in disarray, while the witch falls to silence. With the tent erected, he gathers branches to form a tripod and collects water from the stream into a small tin pot to boil over the fire. He prepares the remainder of the boar he killed the night before last on skewers before feeding and watering the horse. Then he turns his attention back to the witch, who he’s been trying exceptionally hard to ignore.

The witch has been watching him all the while, leaning into his knees he's drawn up to his chest. His neck wound is already leaking through the shoddy bandaging. Suppressing his alarm, Celyn approaches him.

“Do you want your wounds tended?” he asks bluntly.

“That would be ideal,” the witch answers, without moving.

“Then I’m going to need to untie you. If you attack me or try to run, I’ll kill you.”

“Fair enough.” The witch raises his head slightly, then unfolds his legs and turns to present his hands. After a moment’s hesitation, Celyn kneels and begins to work the ropes loose.

“Your hands are warm,” the witch comments, almost appreciative.

“Quiet,” Celyn mutters, his cheeks reddening.

When he finishes untying the witch’s hands and feet, he hefts him up by the good arm.“Go.” When he attempts to guide him toward the tent, however, the witch pushes ahead on his own with surprising strength. Celyn follows watchfully.

“Strip,” he orders once they’re inside.

The witch narrows his eyes. “Here?  _ Everything _ ?” Celyn nods. “I'll freeze to death.”

“Then be quick. I want to see all of your brands.” Celyn unsheathes the dagger at his belt. “I'm going to destroy them before I treat you. No tricks.”

“I'll bleed out before you manage it. If you mean to kill me anyway, at least don't make me suffer.”

“‘A witch can bear only one brand.’ That’s what the Church told me. Yet you bear more than one. I intend to find out why.”

“You were lied to,” the witch says, “either out of ignorance or for a more nefarious purpose. It would almost be cute how much you blindly trust your employer if it weren’t so  _ damn _ annoying.”

Still, he turns away and begins to divest, removing his gloves and scarf first and then his bloody parka, dropping them all in a heap on the ground. He unbuttons his waistcoat, then his undershirt, both fashioned from rich silk, both ruined with blood now, and sheds those as well. His wound has reopened, bleeding freely at his shoulder, but it isn’t what draws Celyn’s gaze. There are three brands carved into the witch’s bare back and one on his right hand, stark against skin the color of waning moonlight. Two dark rings encircle his wrists like shackles. At first glance, Celyn mistakes them for bruises, but on closer inspection, he realizes they're composed of tiny, cyclical characters of some ancient, unreadable script. That uneasy thought spoken by the witch now presents itself vividly to Celyn. Did the Church truly not know of these?

Or did they lie to him?

The witch unlaces his boots and removes them, then his stockings. Rings like those on his wrists curve around his ankles as well. A violet, crescent-shaped brand sits above one on the inside of his left ankle. He rests his hands briefly at his waistline before unbuttoning his trousers, pulling them down his narrow hips, and stepping out of them. Another brand shines red like blood—Celyn almost mistakes the slash marks for a wound—on his right calf. Finally, he slips out of his smallclothes and kicks them onto the pile.

He looks over his shoulder, laying his hand on the wound there, and says, “Are you satisfied?”

“This can't be possible,” Celyn breathes. He gestures for him to turn in place.

Across his abdomen, the witch is marked with jagged yellow lines, representing, Celyn suspects, lightning. Over his right pectoral is a pale blue crystalline structure resembling ice, and on his right hip, a verdant tangle of thorns. A writhing black dragon guards his heart, and at the site of his wound are what appear to be curling turquoise lines of wind.

The witch comes full circle, showing again the three on his back. A swirl of pale blue arcs like a wave from under his left arm to the top of his shoulder. A minimalist half-sun consumed on one side by the golden silhouette of a beast blazes on his right shoulder, and an abstraction of a great tree sprouts up the ridge of his spine and blooms beneath his nape. Another brand, heretofore hidden, slopes across his left buttock, a swath of silver patterning looking rather like chain links. The witch passes his hand over it as if sensing Celyn's eyes.

“My mistress found that one particularly amusing—a brand of submission. Of course, she carved all of these herself and soon ran out of space for more, so I suppose it was inevitable. She couldn't have this particular brand applied to a limb because she truly feared I would lop it off just to be rid of it.”

“Be rid of it?” Celyn says, and then: “No, more importantly,  _ how _ do you have so many? I was not told of this—”

“As I said, you have been gravely misinformed. We mages can have as many brands as our bodies can bear. In many cases, that is one, but it is not unusual to see three, four, even five brands—especially passive ones like this”—he touches the brand of submission—“as well as my brand of truth and these brands of restraint.” He traces the markings on his wrist. “These don't exert nearly the same mana strain as the active brands, and so they're commonly called wards or curses, depending on their function—though that is only a colloquial designation.”

“But,” Celyn says, “you have  _ fourteen _ . No— _ nineteen _ if I count those bands and the brand of truth among them!”

“All but my original”—the witch tightens his fingers over the bloodied wind brand—“were forced upon me by my mistress. As much as it humiliates me to admit, she knows my body better than even I—and so has pushed me to my absolute limit. What you see here is the result of that.”

Celyn realizes, suddenly and chillingly, exactly what the witch meant when he claimed he was not at his full power. Celyn is no witch hunter. He was furnished with no antimagic weaponry, was told that a skilled spearman like him would not need it against this mark. But had the witch used even a fraction of his power against him in their fight, then he would not be standing here now.

The witch glances back at him again, eyes flashing. “Well? Aren't you going to gut me? Hurry it up—I'm cold standing here naked.”

Celyn doesn't move. If he destroys each and every one of the brands, then the witch really will die of blood loss. That’s assuming he could even get to the one at his heart without killing him. And if the witch dies, then what was all this even for?

He sheathes his dagger. He really isn't suited to this work. “Don’t give me a reason to.”

The witch relaxes his shoulders.

Celyn relaxes a little, too. “Now sit.”

Gingerly, the witch lowers himself onto his backside, dragging his knees up in front of him to partially conceal his nudity. Celyn, with a twinge of guilt at having made him bare himself for no reason, unfolds a woolen blanket from his pack and throws it over him. “Lie back. I'm going to treat your wounds now.”

The witch remains admirably composed as Celyn unwraps his bandaged shoulder and draws back the bloodied cloths. The wound is worse than he expected, black with fresh and congealing blood. Celyn covers his mouth with his wrist and breathes in shakily. He would never have given such a wound to a mark he intended to capture alive.

He backs out of the tent with a warning for the witch to stay put, then takes the pot of boiling water from the fire. He sets it in the snow to cool and returns to the tent to rummage through his pack for fresh bandages and gauze and a salve for the pain. The witch is shivering under the blanket; Celyn unfolds another and lays it over him.

“Stay awake,” he says.

“I won’t die so easily. Are you concerned?”

“I want my bounty.”

“Of course.”

Celyn hastens back outside with an earthenware cup for drinking into which he pours the cooling water. He dribbles a bit onto his hand to ensure the temperature isn’t too hot before returning to the witch’s side.

“I’m going to clean this,” he says in warning. The witch doesn’t respond, so he gently tilts the cup downward, splashing water onto the puncture site.

The witch jolts, hissing under his breath. Celyn steadies him with a hand to the side of the head as he continues to pour the water.

“I… would never have done this had I intended for you to live,” he admits. “I am sorry for that.”

“I’ve endured worse,” the witch says through gritted teeth.

With a clean cloth, Celyn dabs at the bloody mess. The witch breathes quick and ragged, flinching occasionally but never once raising his voice in objection. When the blood is mostly cleared away and the wound is cleaned out, Celyn dries the area before spreading the salve over the puncture site and the surrounding scrapes from his spear’s glancing blow. Then he wraps the entire shoulder in gauze and clean cloths and pins the dressings securely under his arm.

“Are you holding up?” he asks, sitting back on his heels and wiping sweat from his brow.

“Doing my best,” the witch mumbles, slinging his good arm over his eyes.

“I’m going to take care of your neck now.”

The wound here, to Celyn’s relief, is shallower than he expects. It must have been shock, then, that caused the witch to faint when he cut him. He cleans the wound methodically, then wraps the entirety of the witch’s neck in bandages. That done, he steps outside to wash his hands of blood before carrying in the remainder of the water.

“Clean yourself up.”

The witch uses his good arm to push himself back into a sitting position. While he cleans the blood from his hands and face, Celyn lays out clothes: a pair of long, insulated undergarments; a tunic and breeches; woolen socks and gloves; and, after considering it a moment, his own knee-length fur parka shrugged from his shoulders.  “Get dressed."

The clothes are too big for the witch’s narrower figure, but at least they’ll keep him warm. The witch doesn’t complain, hastening to pull them on.

“I’m going to tie you up again,” Celyn says once he’s dressed.

“Alright,” the witch says, and puts his hands behind his back. Celyn frowns.

“I should sedate you as well,” he says, more to himself than to the witch.

“I would greatly prefer it if you didn’t.”

“You aren’t in a position to be making demands.”

The witch lowers his arms to his sides and leans into his knees. “I know. It was a request.”

Celyn narrows his eyes. “Just what kind of game are you trying to play?”

“No game. Is it so strange to you that I would rather not be sedated and helpless in the hands of the man who abducted me?”

It isn’t strange, Celyn thinks, but this man most definitely has an ulterior motive. He can’t allow himself to be taken in—he’s conceded too much to the witch already.

Still, he doesn’t know how he will sedate him without causing him further harm. He rubs his left temple. Somehow, he’s made a mess of this whole assignment.

“Can you perform magic without the use of your hands?” he asks then. The witch briefly meets his eyes but doesn’t answer. Celyn frowns again. “I asked you a question.”

“I cannot use magic at present,” the witch says, cryptically.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. I cannot use magic— _if_ I value my life. And if you hadn’t noticed, I rather  _ do _ value my life.”

“I  _ did _ notice,” Celyn retorts dryly. “Why should I take you at your word?”

The witch lifts a hand and pokes his own cheek. “Forgotten about my curse so soon?”

“The brand of truth…”

“Precisely. I. Can’t. Lie.” He accents each word with another prod to the cheek. “If you’re worried about me attacking you, then restrain me again. But such an attack could only be physical in nature, and as you’re rather bigger than me, you shouldn't have any trouble overpowering me.”

Why does everything the witch says sound like a trap? And yet still, Celyn thinks it over, thinks about what he’s risking—and what he’s already inadvertently risked. If the witch could use magic freely, then why hasn’t he attacked him yet? Is he lying about the brand of truth? Celyn doesn’t know the first thing about magic—for a layman to even study it in theory is a crime against the Church.

The same Church that led him here woefully unprepared.

“I’ll… listen to what you have to say,” he says at length.

The witch raises his head. “Is that so?"  


“Yes. But let’s go sit by the fire where it’s warm.”

He helps the witch up and slowly maneuvers his arms behind his back, handling his injured shoulder with care before retying his hands.

“What's your name?” he ends up asking as he escorts him out of the tent and back to the blanket beside the fire.  With his support, the witch carefully lowers himself to his knees.

“It’s Kai,” he says after a moment. “I’m not surprised the Church didn’t tell you.”

“Kai,” Celyn repeats. Then, after an awkward pause: “Would you like something to eat?” By now, the boar skewers will have cooked to a juicy tenderness.

Kai visibly perks up at that. “Are you going to hand-feed me?” he asks, pulling lightly on his restraints.

Celyn can’t tell whether he’s joking or not.

“Here.” He takes a skewer and spears it into the snow before Kai’s face. “Feed yourself.”

Kai gives him a nasty look. “For a supposedly stoic mercenary, you’re rather vexing, you know.”

Celyn ignores the quip. “First of all, tell me about your brands,” he says instead, sitting down beside him with his own skewer. “How do they function?”

“So you’re willing to listen with your ears and not your weapon now?”

In spite of himself, Celyn blushes. “I only want to know the truth. I don’t like being deceived—by you or the Church.”

“Very well. Then  _ listen _ this time. For the first time in your life, you are in the presence of one who  _ cannot _ lie.”

Celyn considers that. “You said it was carved by the Ice Witch,” he says at length. “The brand of truth. It seems she doesn't trust you.”

Kai laughs bitterly. “And why should she when I defy her at every turn? No,” he adds on perceiving Celyn's look of discomfort, “I do not serve her by choice. 'The Ice Witch's Servant' is a silly misnomer and not one I chose for myself. In truth, I am a slave—a mere plaything to her, as I hope you have started to suspect.”

“A slave,” Celyn echoes. Then, feeling rather foolish even as he says it, “That is not what the Church told me.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

Celyn hesitates. “Then I don’t… know who to believe.”

“Believe whoever you like!” Kai says, almost disdainfully. “Believe the one who is magically bound to tell the truth—or believe those fools who sent a lone mercenary on his merry, ignorant way to attempt to kill the most notorious mage outside of the Ice Witch herself!”

Celyn falls quiet. Loath though he is to even acknowledge the possibility that he was deceived, Kai has a point. There can be no way that the Church didn’t know of his multiple brands, at the least.

Which means they were hiding it from him. They sent him here expecting him to die. He represses a shiver.

“Alright,” he says, meekly. “Tell me your side."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave feedback, as I am but a pitiable creature who thirsts for it! <3
> 
> The final part will be out... eventually.


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